Interlude
by Jadea
Summary: What happened after Draco left in "A Deal with the Devil"
1. Default Chapter

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: I'm a Yank, which automatically discounts me from owning JKR's wonderful characters. (We don't do fantasy as well as the Brits, sorry)   
  


Summary: What happened after Draco left the cave in "A Deal With the Devil"   
  


Warnings: This is an *Interlude* between "A Deal With The Devil" and the sometime-in-the- future sequal. This fic details what happened after Draco left the cave. I strongly reccomend you read ADWD before this, especially if you want to understand this. For those who say "full steam ahead" consider yourself forewarned; really, *really* nasty things happened to Harry and Ron in ADWD. This fic picks up where ADWD left off, the sequal will hit a little later in the timeline, when the revenge plot really gets underway. 

This will be slash, Harry/Ron, and references to forced Draco/Ron.   
  


Rating--R. Whoo boy. Yeah.   
  


Note: I would like to thank everyone very much for their reviews of ADWD. Especially Rose--thank you for e-mailing me; it was a nice boost of confidence for a first time author who *never* imagined herself writing slash.   
  
  
  


***********************************************   
  


*Remember Potter. I won.*   
  


The words echoed on the stone around him, fading with every repitition until they dissipated, inaudible; but not before they had engraved themselves on Harry's brain.   
  


Malfoy was gone.   
  


After what he had done. . .he had simply walked away.   
  


//He'll pay. I'll make him pay. Somehow, you bastard. I'll get you, if it's the last thing in the world I ever do, I'll stand over you as you breathe your last. . .//   
  


The rasp of his own breath filled the cave; hoarse and quick, as if he had just sprinted a mile.   
  


Ron didn't make a sound.   
  


*Ron*   
  


Fumbling in the darkness, Harry sat up for the first time in what seemed like centuries, wincing in anticipation of the stabs of frozen pain that would wrack his body, shredding his lungs. . .   
  


But the pain didn't come.   
  


The cold, the ice that had bore down on him for the last hour was gone, melted like the snows of winter with the coming of spring. He wasn't going to die. Malfoy had reversed the 'Tempus Mortalis' spell.   
  


Because of Ron.   
  


Because of what Ron had done.   
  


Abruptly, heat rushed through Harry. A fierce, blistering heat that incinerated everything in its path, making his head swim and his eyes sting. Minutes ago he had been cold, frozen. Not now. Now there was only heat.   
  


God, he hated Malfoy.   
  


He shoved himself to his knees, desperate to get to Ron. Sharp pain sang in his arm; he had forgotten about his elbow. Broken in his tumble down the steep stone stairs that descended into this little hell.   
  


The darkness in the cave was almost total; the only source of light the dim outline of the door leading into the quidditch shed. It was fully night outside and the glow of the stars illuminating the shed did not reach this far below the earth. No matter how hard he stared he could not see even the outline of the form of his best friend.   
  


Ron's name trembled on his lips, but he could not bring himself to break the silence that had descended upon them. Speaking his name, shattering the silence that surrounded them seemed profane, somehow. He needed to see Ron. To touch him. To make sure he was. . .   
  


Ok?   
  


Harry knew damn well Ron was not Ok.   
  


Ron might never be Ok again.   
  


Illuminated by the sickly hue of Malfoy's wand, the cave had seemed small, no more then ten feet tall and high. The spaces seemed to have grown in the dark; the distance stretched out around him as he searched, blindly, for Ron.   
  


The first thing he felt was not Ron, but rather his own wand.   
  


A rush of gratitude hit him as his fingers closed around the phoenix feather wand, smoothing the familiar wood with the pads of his fingers.   
  


He was no longer defenseless. They were no longer defenseless.   
  


Malfoy must have left it for him to find. Lying, discarded, on the floor.   
  


"Lumos."   
  


Even the dim white glow thrown by his wand made him blink, eyes adjusting to the scattered light.   
  


Oh, God. . .   
  


Ron.   
  


He looked so small.   
  


So vulnerable.   
  


So very, very hurt.   
  


Curled up on his side on the floor of the cave, knees drawn up, eyes closed. His fingers were clutching the fabric of his robes, flung on the floor beside him, clenching and unclenching the torn scarlet cloth.   
  


Harry gingerly made his way over to the form of his best friend, dragging himself the last couple feet on his knees. He ignored the pain in his elbow, the wet cloth of his own robes as they clung to his body. He ignored everything but Ron.   
  


Clear channels cut through the dust on his friends face, evidence of the tears Ron had cried earlier. Earlier, when Harry had been dying. And later, when Malfoy was exacting the price for Harry's life.   
  


Images flashed through Harry's mind.   
  


*Malfoy, hands clenched in Ron's fiery hair.*   
  


*Malfoy, seizing Ron's mouth, forcing his foul tounge inside.*   
  


*Malfoy, naked. Groaning in pleasure as his teeth bit down hard on a pale throat.*   
  


Gently, gently, Harry brushed the red fringe of hair out of his friends eyes with his own shaking fingers.   
  


Slowly, reluctantly, Ron opened his eyes, blinking against the light.   
  


"Ron. . ."   
  


Some deep noise in his throat, some half strangled expression the other boy could not voice. Then Ron's hands seized his shoulders and pulled him down, clutching him tightly.   
  


Harry clung to the taller boy, closing his eyes, burying his own hands in Ron's hair. Stroking through the soft strands, murmuring nonsense in Ron's ear. He jarred his broken elbow but ignored the pain that rushed through him, completely focused on tangling his fingers in Ron's hair, on the whisper of the other boy's breath on his neck, on the comforting beat of the other boy's heart.   
  


"Harry. . .you're alive."   
  


A sob strangled him, nearly escaping his throat. Ron had been worried. . .for him. Such relief, in that voice.   
  


That voice had always had more power over him then any other. It was a voice he heard, more often then not, in his dreams.   
  


Gently, his fingers traced the length of his best friend's face, marveling at how soft Ron's skin was. He cupped one cheek in his hand, feeling the heat of the other boy's skin, the soft grit of dust, the clear tracks made by his tears. Those blue eyes held his own green ones. Those familiar blue eyes, windows to a soul he knew as intimately as he knew his own. Such new pain in those familiar eyes. . .   
  


"Harry. . .Harry, he. . .he hurt me."   
  


Tears stung the corners of his own eyes. But he would not let them fall. Not with Ron's achingly blue eyes watching him. He would not.   
  


He would cry later.   
  


"I know, Ron."   
  


Those blue eyes watched him, their wounded gaze settling around him, grounding him with their weight. Harry had always loved Ron's eyes, the dark blue of the sky on a summer evening. Bright eyes that, when combined with the freckles that dusted the other boy's cheeks, made him look incredibly young. Eyes that still held all the innocence and wonder of a childhood Harry had never been able to experience.   
  


His fingers traced the paths the tears had made on the other boy's face, marveling at their existence. Before today, he had never seen Ron cry. But here was evidence, right at his fingertips.   
  


Words caught in this throat, choking him. What could he say? He wanted to comfort Ron, wanted desperately to reassure him, but he didn't know how. He had never been good with words, never known how to express his regular feelings to others, let alone feelings of the intensity that were rippling through him now. 

Ron, on the other hand, was transparent as glass. His face, his eyes, his entire body revealed exactly what he was thinking, feeling, all the time. He never even thought about doing or saying the right thing, he simply did and said what he felt.   
  


The words trembled on the precipice of his lips. Earlier, he had been *cold*, vapors of ice freezing his lungs, unable to breathe or talk. Now, it seemed, he was equally unable to say what he wanted, *needed* to say. The words would not come. . .but Ron had to know.   
  


Gently, he tilted his best friend's face up to meet his own and lowered his mouth to Ron's.   
  


All the intensity of feeling he could not express in words, all the emotions wracking through him; the rage, the sorrow, the guilt, but most of all, the love he felt for the boy with him were conveyed through the kiss.   
  


Their last kiss--the first kiss they had shared--had been gentle, wistful.   
  


This one was not.   
  


Ron's arms twined around him, pulling him closer and closer, mouth moving under his, lips parting, inviting Harry to deepen the kiss. His own hands moved restlessly through Ron's fiery 

hair, rubbing his fingers against the other boy's temples before drifting down to caress his trembling neck. . .   
  


Trembling?   
  


Oh, fuck.   
  


Abruptly, Harry pulled away, wrenching himself out of Ron's grasp, rocking back on his heels. Shaking, he ran a hand through his own messy dark hair.   
  


"God, Ron. . .I'm so s-sorry."   
  


Another wave of guilt washed over him, threatening to drown him. Malfoy had just. . .done *that* to Ron. Because of him. *For* him. And now he had just pounced on his best friend. . .   
  


"Why the fuck did you do that, Harry?"   
  


He winced at the hurt tone in the other boy's voice, closing his eyes. He didn't think he could bear to see the pain in the other boys face. . .his fist clenched tightly around his wand. . .   
  


"I--I'm sorry, I shouldn't have kissed you. . ."   
  


A hiss of pain from the other boy and Harry couldn't keep his eyes closed, he watched apprehensively as Ron pushed himself into a sitting postition.   
  


"No, Harry. Not 'Why the fuck did you kiss me?' Rather, 'Why the fuck did you pull away?'"   
  


Unable to reply, Harry simply blinked, gaping at Ron. The other boy was glaring at him furiously, crimson hair tumbling wildly around his face, an angered expression on his face--as if he had just been slapped.   
  


"Ron. . .you were--were shaking when we were--were k-kissing, and--M-Malfoy just--"   
  


"Damn it, Harry. I know *exactly* what Malfoy just did to me!"   
  


Harry stopped himself from wincing again at Ron's bitter yell. He knew this expression well.. his best friend's emotions had reached a pitch point--they had to be released, or Ron would shatter.   
  


"Fuck, Harry. I know EXACTLY what that little Slytherin *murderer* did to me. I know what he did to you, too. That little bastard, he put an unforgiveable curse on you, and he ra-- he rap--"   
  


Ron's voice broke off, he was trembling violently in the dim light thrown by Harry's wand. His hands twisted his already torn quidditch robes so roughly Harry heard the cloth rip; the other boy raised his hands, clenching them in his touseled hair, white knuckled. Ron's jaw was clenched tightly, biting down hard enough on his lip to draw blood.   
  


Almost faster then Harry could see, Ron's fist flashed out and he struck the stone floor of the cave as hard as he could; a harsh cry of pain burst from the other boys lips, furious tears stinging those innocent blue eyes.   
  


Moving before thought, Harry grabbed Ron's shoulders, shaking him hard. Ron struggled, twisting and squirming, but Harry clung to him, fingers clutching tighter and tighter in a grip that would undoubtedly leave bruises.   
  


As abruptly as Ron had begun struggling he stopped; all resistence in him seemed to melt away and he collapsed, burying his face in Harry's shoulder, shaking and shuddering.   
  


Again, Harry found his hands running through Ron's hair, rubbing his back. Speaking words of comfort that offered none, slipping his arms around the trembling form of his best friend. Broken, strangled words muttered into the sweaty fabric of his own quidditch robe.   
  


"Harry. . .Harry, he hurt me."   
  


As tenderly as he could, Harry raised Ron's broken hand to his lips and kissed it.   
  
  
  
  
  


*******************************   
  


(Bangs head against desk numerous times) Aaaggghhhhhhh!! This is *not* the end of the interlude. There's still one more scene to add--let's just say that Harry and Ron are not going back to Hogwarts tonight. But I don't know if this is working! This was incredibly difficult to write. . .especially Ron. Help me, please? (Hands folded, imploring, big-eyed look) I don't know if I'm writing Harry or Ron right in this situation. . . I want them to be as IC as possible. Advice, advice please?   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Out of the Darkness

Author: Jadea   
  


Chapter 2: Interlude   
  


Notes: Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter 1 and told me what they thought. . .I'm anxious about making Ron as IC as possible, and I *don't* want to turn this whole series into a cliche. Thanks again, for the reviews, and the advice.   
  


**************************************   
  


Wide blue eyes watched him, startled, above their joined hands.   
  


"Don't do that, Ron. Don't *ever* do that."   
  


As gently as he could, Harry examined the hand he held to his lips. All four fingers probably broken, thumb probably jammed. The pain must be exquisite; but the only emotion Ron showed was the tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes.   
  


Still, Harry knew why Ron had done it. Knew exactly why Ron had done it. The need had been coursing through him forever now. . .the need to strike, to hit *something,* to release the pent up anger and guilt that consumed him. Harry had sixteen years experience with controlling his emotions, with forcing them down, hiding them away. Ron had none.   
  


If he didn't do something soon, he was going to explode.   
  


//I swear, Malfoy. . .you'll pay for this. Pay for what you did to me, and double for what you did to Ron//   
  


"Ron. . .Your hand is broken. We need to get you back to the infirmary. . .to Madame Pomf--"   
  


Fear flashed through those familiar eyes and Ron wrenched his hand away.   
  


"No. No, Harry. I d-don't want to go back. Not to Hogwarts. Not yet."   
  


The other boy refused to look at him, cradling his wounded hand in his lap. Long red locks fell over his face, obscuring his eyes.   
  


Moving cautiously, not wanting to startle his best friend, Harry shifted closer to the other boy, hands once again resting on Ron's naked shoulders.   
  


"Ron. . .we can't stay here. It's not safe. My elbow is probably broken, and so's your hand. . .you've been --"   
  


Harry just stopped himself from saying "hurt." He could not speak the other word. He could not.   
  
  
  


"No! I don't want to go back! Don't you understand? Look at me, Harry!"   
  


Ron's voice was rough, jagged, words echoing through the cave. He forced Harry's hands off his shoulders, flinging his arms wide.   
  


"Damn it, *look at me,* Harry."   
  


Bruises marked the other boy's naked body; his wrists, his neck, his hips. Bite marks trailed down his throat, fading from sight as the shadows hit Ron's body. Sweaty, disheveled, frantic. Emotions laid completely bare.   
  


He looked. . .   
  


Scared.   
  


Furious.   
  


*Well fucked*   
  


"What are we supposed to tell Madame Pomfrey, Harry? Eh? What are we gonna tell the rest of our roommates? Or *Hermione?* What are we supposed to say when they ask why my robes are all ripped, or why I have a bloody bite mark on my neck, or why the *fuck* your elbow's broke?"   
  


A thread of panic ran through Ron's words, not quite hidden by the frenzied tone with which he spat the words out.   
  


"They're not stupid, Harry. Not Madame Pomfrey, not Seamus and Dean, and *certainly* not Hermione. All they'll have to do is take one look, and. . ."   
  


Unwittingly, Harry found his hands gripping Ron's fists tightly, felt the large hands clenched tight within the circle of his palms. The anger had bled out of Ron's voice for now but the thread of panic remained, pulsing through Ron's words.   
  


"They can't know, Harry. No one. . .no one can know. Please. . ."   
  


Blue eyes, half hidden by crimson strands, flickered up to meet his own. Pleading.   
  


Harry felt something inside him shatter.   
  


Malfoy was going to die.   
  


In a screaming, sobbing, wailing, unbearable arc of pain, Malfoy was going to pay, and pay, and pay.   
  


For putting *that look* in those eyes.   
  


Ron's eyes had always conveyed every single emotion the boy felt, from scalding fury to dazed pleasure, as clearly as if every emotion or thought was stamped on his forehead in bright red letters. Harry would have thought he'd seen every emotion pass, at one time or another, through those expressive eyes.   
  


But this. . .   
  


There was one emotion, Harry now knew, that he had never seen before.   
  


Shame.   
  


His hands had moved from gripping Ron's fists to the back of the other boy's head, one smoothing through the red hair, the other palm pressing against Ron's cheek; holding Ron's blue eyes on his own green ones.   
  


"What Malfoy did. . .That was not your fault, Ron. Do you understand me? That was *not your fault.*"   
  


//It was mine//   
  


"Ron. . .we have to get out of here."   
  


He felt the other boy tense under his hands, shoulders tightening, saw the flash of despair in those eyes.   
  


//God, Malfoy. . .I fucking *hate* you.//   
  


"Harry. . .I can't go back like this."   
  


"I know. You're right. . .neither of us can go back to Hogwarts right now. I look like I got in the wrong end of a fight with a blast-ended skrewt, and you. . .couldn't lie if someone put a wand to your head."   
  


For the first time in ages, a ghost of a smile flitted across Ron's face. Tentative and disappearing almost instantly, but Harry latched on to it.   
  


His hands had slipped back down to Ron's shoulders now, kneading the tense muscles with his fingers. Ron's eyes slipped half shut, and Harry spoke in soft, soothing tones, the way he talked to Hedwig when she returned from a delivery bedraggled and frantic. Ron's mood had understandably been swinging from one extreme to another ever since Malfoy left, from blistering anger to fear to shame and anxiety, and Harry needed Ron to be as calm as possible.   
  


"We'll go the Shrieking Shack, tonight. No one but us knows how to get in. . .it'll be safe. I'll wait a while until everyone's asleep, and then go get the invisibility cloak. We can sneak back early tomorrow morning. . ."   
  


Ron's eyes were completely closed now, head tilted back. Harry's hand stroked through the other boys hair, gently tugging on the short strands. His other hand drifted over his friend's collarbone, smoothing upward to cup the back of his neck--   
  


There.   
  


A vivid bruise marred his best friend's throat less then an inch under his jaw. An ugly, reddish-blue bruise with small teeth marks.   
  


"Then what?"   
  


Tearing his eyes away from the mark on Ron's throat, Harry answered, speaking calmly only through a great effort:   
  


"We'll go to Madame Pomfrey. She'll fix my elbow and your hand."   
  


"And what do we tell her?"   
  


A smile, cold and hard, flickered across Harry's face.   
  


"Whatever the hell we want."   
  


_______________________________________   
  
  
  


Bluebell fires were Hermione's specialty, but that didn't mean Harry couldn't conjure them.   
  


The medium sized flame burned quietly in the dust choked fireplace, casting light that flickered throughout the room, and Harry watched as the shadows danced on the walls.   
  


He knew he would have to go back for his invisibility cloak soon, but he didn't want to leave Ron yet.   
  


The fire snapped; the flames gushing upwards with a hiss, illuminating the room in a flash of brightness before fading back to its former muted glow. The light pooled over by the fireplace where the flames licked at the stone crevices trapping them; hungry fingers of heat seeking to escape and destroy.   
  


As a child, he had always been fascinated with fire. The Dursley's rarely built them; they were messy and dangerous and primitive. Besides, Harry liked them, which obviously meant they were useless, annoying things. He remembered the few times that they'd build one, the way the flames had seemed to. . .sing to him. Hum. The way the colors--red, yellow, orange and blue--had fused together. The way they were so brilliant, so bright to look at it.   
  


A soft murmur, and the figure in his arms clutched his robes tighter, burrowing their face deeper into his chest. By the time they had reached the inside of the Shack Ron had been exhausted, stumbling up the steps with Harry's arm around him before collapsing on the old four poster bed. Unconsciously, his fingers stroked through the banked fire that rested against him, watching as the light caught strands of copper and gold, gleaming under his hands.   
  


//White hands twisted in scarlet hair//   
  


Another mutter, this one slightly louder, and Harry realized the hand resting on Ron's head had clenched rather tightly, gripping the red strands almost painfully. As gently as he could he stroked the back of the other boy's head, soothing the area, whispering soft words to the sleeping figure curled around him.   
  


The Shrieking Shack was deathly silent in the middle of the night; the only sounds that of their breathing and Ron's soft mutters. And the song of the fire.   
  


His hands had drifted down now, lightly brushing the strands of hair at the base of Ron's neck. Soft and short, they whispered through his fingers. Down, down his fingers slipped, ghosting over the bruise on Ron's neck.   
  


//Harry. . .my robes--they're ruined.//   
  


He blinked furiously against the tears suddenly stinging his eyes.   
  


He remembered the way Ron had moved, in the cave--slowly, reluctantly, exhaustion dragging his movements. The other boy had tried to remain impassive, but Ron was no more capable of masking his feelings then Harry was of impetuously revealing his own. Dressing himself as carefully as possible. His torn robes, the orange Chudley Cannons shirt that Harry had given him that Malfoy had so despised--   
  


*Great God, Weasley! That's the most hideous thing I've ever *seen!**   
  


Harry had seen Ron dress countless times, just as Ron had him. . .they shared the same room, after all. But this time, he hadn't looked. It seemed. . .different, now.   
  


This time the mutter was more of a moan; a soft exhalation of breath he felt through the fabric of his own robes. The hands clenching his robes were white knuckled, and Harry felt a slow surge of familiar anger as he saw the frown on the other boy's sleeping face, the anxiety and tension obvious.   
  


Ron was having a nightmare.   
  


Well, no bloody wonder.   
  


Propping his hurt elbow on the headboard of the four-poster bed, Harry slipped his other hand tighter around Ron's back, rubbing the material of the robe against the smooth, muscled back. One summer night, when he had been staying at the Burrow, Ginny had had a stomach ache. He remembered the way Mrs. Weasley had held her, rubbing her back, smoothing her hair. Comforting her. Holding her as if she was the most precious thing in the entire world.   
  


Slowly, Harry felt the body in his arms relax, the tension ease. Still, his hand rubbed the other boy's back in slowly expanding circles. He watched carefully as the white-knuckled grip on his robes relaxed and Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'chocolate' in his sleep.   
  


For the first time in hours, Harry smiled.   
  


Ron lay half on top of Harry, who half-sat, half-lay propped up against the wooden headboard. Legs tangled together, the comforting weight of the other boy's body on his. Face resting on his chest; raising and falling gently with his very breath. Golden lashes brushing those lightly freckled cheeks.   
  


"I love you."   
  


The boy in his arms slept on.   
  


Another cough from the fire sent a rush of sparks into the air. It was after one o clock in the morning, now. He needed to get the invisibility cloak, and soon. Hermione was probably frantic. He could only hope she wouldn't go to McGonnagal. . .He didn't know if he was capable of lying convincingly to his head of house, and she would be furious with both him and Ron if she knew they had been gone for an entire night.   
  


It was a moot point, either way. Whether or not Hermione went to McGonnagal, neither would ever hear a word of what had happened. Not from him, not from Ron. That bastard Malfoy had made Ron swear, as a part of their deal to save Harry's life, that Ron would never tell anyone what Malfoy had done to him.   
  


Harry hadn't sworn.   
  


But as he watched the firelight flicker, glinting in the copper threads in Ron's fiery hair, he knew he wasn't going to tell.   
  


Not McGonnagal. Not Dumbeldore. Not even Hermione.   
  


He could picture it, as easily as if he had seen it in a Pensieve. They accused Malfoy. . .   
  


And then?   
  


One of two things. The bloody git used his wealth, his connections, his daddy's power, and walked.   
  


No *fucking* way.   
  


Or he lost the trial. Wound up being jailed, serving time in a wizarding prison. Azkahban, maybe.   
  


Not enough. Not nearly enough.   
  


Neither of them were good enough.   
  


Malfoy could not get off. He would not get away with what he had done to him. . .done to Ron.   
  


And Harry would not allow anyone else to take what was rightfully theirs.   
  


No. The pain had been theirs--his and Ron's.   
  


The justice would be, too.   
  
  
  


**********************************   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Thank Heaven! "Interlude" is finished! Thanks ever so much to everyone who reviewed, especially Rose and Kim who took the time to e-mail me. Your comments nudged me in the direction I knew was right. Dang it, I wanted Harry and Ron to have sex. Oh well, that's for the actual sequel. ; ) And now. . .I know. I had an epiphany while typing this, and I know *exactly* what's going to happen to that little bugger, Malfoy. Trust me, the boys gonna pay.   
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



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